It’s the same day after Mario Testino has photographed Vogue’s September cover story celebrating the nuptials of Kate Moss and Jamie Hince. As Jamie drives off to London to play a concert in Hyde Park, Kate contemplates Glastonbury. “I know Morrissey’s playing,” she says. “And Radiohead’s doing a secret gig, and Stella’s there . . . And we’ve got Hamish . . . with his fresh blood!”

What on earth would I wear? Then she whispered six magic words into my ear “Brian Jones, pink tweed, Ossie Clark.” Not that she needed to seduce me with promises of the legendary sixties dandy paraphernalia hanging in her coat closet in the country amongst the Barbours and the Wellingtons and the floppy Dior hats—Glasto with Kate Moss? I was so there.

“It’s fabulous,” says Kate. “It’s a magical place, for sure. It’s mental. Hamish you can just say something, and it will appear.” Case in point: One of their party lost the car keys several years ago at the festival and three days later, a complete stranger, among the 300,000 visitors, walked up to them and said, “Are you looking for these?” and there they were. “Will I find a nice boyfriend?” asks IMG’s Jennifer Ramey, Kate’s agent and confidante.

A decade ago Kate rented a little cottage in an idyllic Cotswold village; a retreat from her heady urban world with all its promise and dangers. “And then I just couldn’t live without it,” explains Kate, who eventually bought a rambling seventeenth-century farmhouse set in pretty walled gardens, nearby. Many of Kate’s intimates followed her here; model (and fellow Corinne Day discovery) Rosemary Ferguson and her husband, artist Jake Chapman, bought another farmhouse down the road; casting director Jess Hallett and her photographer husband, Pietro Birindelli (Testino’s retoucher, a useful man to know) are nearer still—they own a barn conversion on Kate’s property. Kate has known her core group of friends for decades. “Once you’re a friend, you’re a friend for life,” says Testino.

Today, after much dithering, we drive to Kate’s country house, feast at the Swan, the gastropub in the village of Southrop, where she is to be married, and collapse in her library in downy chintz chairs in front of the television to watch U2 performing in Glastonbury’s remorseless driving rain. Between the jet lag and the cruel overserving of the wine by the waiter at the pub, I nod off—and am awoken with a princely kiss planted on my forehead by Jamie, who has just got back from his gig in London’s Hyde Park and has been double-dared by the giggling girls.

My vast bed is heaped with leopardy cushions and affords a view through a window framed with ancient toile du jour curtains of the prettiest English gardens, which I go and explore in the morning having staggered rather bleary-eyed into the kitchen where a chef is offering bacon and eggs. I take a view that the divinely swaggering Brian Jones Regency frock coat (which Kate had authenticated by her friend Anita Pallenberg) is too precious for the Glastonbury mud, so I grab a Barbour and wellies instead and off we set for the helicopter, which has landed in Jake and Rosemary’s field. Kate is wearing a black leather Balmain frock coat and skinny jeans that might have been designed for this very situation and client. This is Glastonbury bespoke; we are ferried through the crowds in a Jeep. The gregarious publicist and Kate intimate Fran Cutler is holding court in a Winnebago in a trailer park where Alexa Chung brushes shoulders with Lord Edward Spencer-Churchill, the towering scion of Blenheim estate.

The paps pounce the moment we leave the compound to meet up with Jamie and Alison Mosshart backstage at their concert; it is a disquieting experience. “Wedding off as Kate takes new man to Glasto,” giggles Kate as we wade arm in arm through the mud, cynosure of all lenses (by the time we elect to watch the Chemical Brothers at midnight in the mosh pit, we have to sway to the electro beats as the deep mud has congealed around our wellies, rendering legs immobile). When we walk back from a trip to see the fairies at the mystic stone circle, we discover that a bitter reveler has written “Kate Moss should learn to walk” in the Jeep’s muddied window. “What do they think she does for a living?!” shrieks Jen, and we all crack up.